


Ain't No Sunshine When He's Gone

by HardNoctLife



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Boxing & Fisticuffs, Drinking to Cope, Feelings, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Lost in Wars Zine, Mental Health Issues, Non-Graphic Violence, References to Depression, Smoking, World of Ruin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:53:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27548623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HardNoctLife/pseuds/HardNoctLife
Summary: After Noctis disappears into the Crystal, Prompto, Gladio, and Ignis must learn to cope with their new reality.Some are better at it than others.
Relationships: Gladiolus Amicitia & Prompto Argentum & Ignis Scientia
Comments: 24
Kudos: 107
Collections: Lost in Wars - A FFXV World of Ruin Zine





	Ain't No Sunshine When He's Gone

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Lost in Wars, World of Ruin Zine! I partnered up with my favorite artist, @MysteriousBean5 for this story. Hope you enjoy.

_Day 1 –_

_There’s no sunshine and everyone is freaking out because Noctis is gone._

_I mean, he kinda did get sucked into a giant crystal._

_Gladio ran off to try and track down Ardyn, Ignis has no plan for once, and me?_

_I’m barely holding myself together, but I have to stay strong for everyone else since Noctis isn’t here._

_Buddy, where are you?_

_Come back soon._

* * *

He leans over the balcony railing of his one-bedroom apartment to watch a group of Glaives as they stumble out of a bar and into the street below, and even though it’s nearly two in the afternoon in Lestallum, it might as well be midnight with how dark it is outside.

It has been that way for nearly six months now—ever since Noctis vanished into the crystal.

Prompto’s lounging in a pair of ripped jeans and a faded t-shirt since he isn’t needed for guard duty. As the drunkards’ raucous laughter drifts towards him, he takes a long drag of his cigarette before squashing it on the brick wall nearby. Smoke and whiskey are his cologne nowadays, something that Ignis complains about whenever he stops by.

Harsh words, spoken in a delicate accent: “You smell like an ashtray.”

Prompto hears the door click open and sighs, letting his head hang over the back of the chair as his eyes close and footsteps draw closer.

_Speak of the devil._

He doesn’t need to see Ignis to know that it’s him; years spent together make it easy to identify the man by his footfalls. A hand eventually reaches out, fingers running lightly through Prompto’s golden hair.

“You need a haircut,” Ignis says.

“Why? I’ve got nobody to impress,” Prompto grumbles, squinting one eye open. It’s beside the point, but he’s itching for a fight.

Ignis is wearing slacks and suspenders, immaculate as always despite being the only blind soldier Prompto knows. He proceeds to trail his hand to Prompto’s chin, frowning when he feels the stubble growing there.

“Honestly, Prompto, what would Noct think?”

The mention of Noctis is like touching a hot stove, and Prompto flinches, immediately pushing Ignis’s hand away.

“I don’t think Noct would care about some peach fuzz.” There’s a moment of tense silence before Prompto sighs in resignation. “Did you need something, Iggy?” The question is blunt, a far cry from his former carefree self.

Prompto is beginning to think that he is solar-powered because he hasn’t had the energy to force himself to feign happiness since the sun disappeared, all pretense of levity and optimism vanishing within a month of losing his best friend.

However, Ignis is too perceptive (and stubborn) to let the topic die, and he carefully pulls up a chair beside Prompto, folding his hands between his knees.

“I merely came to check on you, as _friends_ often do.” There is an undertone of concern that Prompto mentally brushes aside.

“I mean…” He hesitates, and the sounds of the city roll in on the silence. 

The noises of Lestallum haven’t changed much, even with the sudden influx of people seeking refuge from across Lucis. A dog barks in the distance, children are laughing from an open window, and there’s music playing from some store, a melancholy instrumental track that matches the prevailing mood perfectly. Prompto deliberates as he lets his head rest on the balcony’s railing. The sizzle of someone cooking meat skewers rises from below, and he’s reminded that he hasn’t eaten all day.

Finally, he gives a lackluster response. “I’m fine, Ignis.”

It sounds like a bad line from a romcom, and he knows it, but it’s preferable to the truth. Unfortunately, Ignis may be blind, but he’s not stupid, and he also happens to know Prompto better than most.

“Mmhmm,” he hums, obviously unconvinced. “I told Gladio that you would meet him for a drink tonight. Your ‘appreciation’ for alcohol seems to be something you two still have in common.”

The ‘ _still’_ stings, though he won’t admit it. Prompto groans a little as he sits up. “ _Seriously_? Dude, I’m twenty-one years old, I can make my own schedule.”

“Well then, why don’t you?” Ignis rises to his feet gracefully. “Whenever you decide to start acting your age, I will leave you to your own devices, but until then, I’ll continue with the handholding.” He is already heading for the door, moving decisively despite his lack of vision. “Seven o’clock sharp, at the Borough. Don’t be late.”

The door closes on the conversation, the decision made, and Prompto reaches for his lighter as he pulls out another cigarette.

* * *

They’re not talking, and that suits Prompto just fine. With his cheek pressed to the bar’s countertop, he watches the large ice cube in his whiskey glass slowly melting, the low murmur of conversation and the gentle crooning of a woman’s voice from the jukebox creating a cocoon for them to reside in.

The lyrics are ironically appropriate.

_“…this house just ain’t no home, anytime he goes away…”_

Gladio gulps down the rest of his beer, and he sets the glass down hard. When the vibrations from it pulse through Prompto’s skin he finds himself wishing that he could feel more than just an empty numbness.

“Hey,” Gladio grunts.

He doesn’t bother to lift his head, although his eyes flick up to where Gladio is glaring down at him.

“…heyaz.”

“What’s your problem?”

 _Well, that didn’t take long_.

It’s a very Gladio question, and Prompto thinks it warrants a very Gladio response.

“I don’t have a problem.” He does lift his head then, but only to take a sip of his whiskey, and he revels in the biting burn in the back of his throat, something he used to hate. “None that you can fix, anyway.” Raising his glass, he downs the rest of the alcohol like a shot.

They have been fighting more and more regularly now, Gladio’s patience running dry as he struggles to wrap his head around Prompto’s emotions. Feelings aren’t the Shield’s strong suit; he’s more of an attack first, ask questions later kind of guy.

Unlike Ignis, Gladio will give Prompto a fight if pushed hard enough, but it’s one that neither of them will win.

The bartender is busy pouring Gladio another beer, which means they miss the way the man leans in threateningly, gripping Prompto by the collar of his shirt. Old Prompto would shy away from the contact, but New Prompto holds eye contact, jaw clenching.

Like the bar they find themselves in, the energy between the two is dark, bordering on dirty; emotionally charged with things they wish they could forget. But Gladio has never been one to brush problems under the rug.

“You think you’re alone in this?” Gladio hisses as his fingers dig into the fabric of Prompto’s shirt. “We _all_ lost him. We _all_ failed. You’re _not_ special.”

 _I know I’m not_ , Prompto thinks, but he holds back the self-pitying retort as the bartender slides a glass between them, eyeing the two in warning.

“Tch.” Gladio releases Prompto roughly, the force rattling through the blond’s ribcage, and he takes hold of his drink without raising it to his lips. “Stop throwing a tantrum and man up. We didn’t go through all this shit just to give in now.”

Prompto doesn’t respond, swirling his empty glass just so he has something to do with his hands that doesn’t involve throwing a punch.

Without warning, Gladio slaps a pocketful of gil down and slides off his barstool, shrugging on his jacket.

“We don’t know how long it’s gonna take, but he’s gonna need us when he comes back.” His gaze rests on Prompto then, honeyed eyes now somber. “Especially you.”

He listens to Gladio’s footsteps receding, harsher and closer together than Ignis’s, and waits for the door to slam shut before letting his forehead come to rest on the bar counter. Breathing in the darkness behind his eyelids, he exhales hopelessness.

He desperately tries to recall any memory of the sun. Its warmth—its _brilliance_ —but all he can see in his mind’s eye is Noctis, smiling back at him from the end of a pier, fishing rod in hand, without a care in the world.

_I don’t know if we can do this without you._

He pays and leaves, shoulders hunched beneath the weight of the world and his ghosts.

* * *

_Day 182 –_

_It’s looking more and more like this darkness is here to stay._

_There are plenty of things to do in Lestallum. The Glaive is working hard to make sure the city stays safe and that we have power, and there’s an endless supply of daemons to fight._

_It’s nice to keep busy because it takes my mind off of you._

_I guess I never really thought about how you were the glue that held us together until everything started to fall apart._

_Ignis and Gladio are feeling less like family and more like strangers now, and it hurts. There’s no home for any of us to go back to, but I always thought that if we had each other we could make it through anything._

_Now, I’m not so sure. This might be the beginning of the end._

_~~I miss you, Noct.~~ _

* * *

Time becomes a black hole, sucking everyone into its void. Whether it’s Monday or Sunday, every evening is the same for Gladio. He strips out of his Glaive uniform as soon as the workday ends, hits the nearest bar, then drinks until he passes out. Wash, rinse, repeat.

But tonight, it’s Friday. Not that it matters to most people, but it matters to Gladio because Friday means Fight Night.

It starts as a way to blow off steam. Just a couple of drunk Glaives in an empty parking lot at who-the-fuck-knows o’clock. They laugh when punches land and patch each other up the best they can when the blood flows, and _Astrals_ , it feels good to feel _something_ , even if that something is a right hook to the jaw.

Gladio, predictably, is pretty damn good at it. At some point, they start betting gil and assigning points for certain moves. Just to make things interesting. But then guys start inviting friends, and a big enough crowd starts to show up consistently that they’re forced to move their extracurricular activity somewhere it won’t draw the attention of local law enforcement, or rather, their commanding officers.

Fight Night is relocated to an unused Lestallum warehouse that one of their regulars used to work at. It was once a factory that made and stored solar panels. Gladio laughs at the irony.

They create a boxing ring by stacking up crates to make four posts before stringing ropes between them. It’s nothing fancy, but it serves its purpose. Other crates are used as makeshift chairs and benches, and someone gets the brilliant idea to hang a spotlight from the ceiling for dramatic effect.

Gladio doesn’t really care about any of that, though. He just goes to fight. But it seems to make some people happy, so sure, go for it.

Gladio enters the warehouse through the backdoor. The lone lamp above it is on, signaling that it’s unlocked, and he enters without slowing, nodding to the stocky bouncer behind it as he rounds the corner.

“Yo.”

“What’s up, Gladio.”

Gladio tosses his bag of extra clothes by the wall, eyes sweeping over the warehouse floor. A small crowd has already assembled, mostly younger guys like him. They’re drinking beers and swapping stories of their workweek (or lack thereof) when he walks up, and they raise glasses and wave hands.

“Yo, Gladio!”

“Ayy, Behemoth is here!”

“Hey, what’s up, Daddio!”

Gladio chuckles at the chorus of greetings, shrugging out of his jacket and tank top before tossing them aside. They land on an unoccupied crate and stay there as he crouches down and begins to stretch, muscles twinging in protest.

“Oh, it’s gonna be _that_ kind of night, huh?” the guy nearest to him asks. Gladio remembers his name is Tanner. He’s an older guy, scruffy and shorter than average. He looks generally harmless, but looks can be deceiving. Gladio remembers seeing him knock out two kids half his age just a couple weeks ago without even breaking a sweat.

“I wanna taste blood tonight,” Gladio grunts. He’s busy taping his fingers up, pinching the roll to his chest as he attempts to wrap his non-dominant hand on his own.

“Yours? Or someone else’s?” the man drawls, teasing.

Gladio’s grin is wolfish. “Both, I think.”

Snorting, the older man holds out the beer he just opened. “Then you might want some of this, kid.” Gladio takes it with a nod of thanks before knocking it back.

* * *

There’s something different about fighting with fists. With a sword or any other weapon, it’s easy to distance oneself from an opponent. Metal on metal is a lot less personal than knuckles hitting hardened flesh, than feeling sweat and blood and saliva on your own skin. There’s an ache in Gladio’s bones after Fight Night that he doesn’t get when he used to swing a giant blade around. Hand-to-hand combat is raw, and it’s messy.

Gladio can practically hear Ignis’ voice chiding him in his head:

_‘Uncivilized. Barbaric.’_

But there’s nothing civilized about living in a world engulfed in supernatural darkness either.

_If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, right?_

He steps into the ring, listening to the hum of the crowd that is gathered. It’s busier than usual, but that’s fine by him. The rowdier it gets, the harder he goes, as if feeding off their energy. Gladio gives a little wave to those in his immediate line of sight before eyeing his first contender of the night: Snake Sam.

Snake is thin and pale, with beady eyes just like the reptile. He earned it for being a slippery and deceptively challenging fighter, and as he saunters into the ring with the confidence of a man twice his size—170 pounds of wiry, lean muscle—Gladio can see he is unafraid and just as eager for blood as he is.

They are friendly to each other outside the ring, but inside it, there are no alliances, no holding back. Anything else would be a disservice. Snake nods to Gladio and tosses him a thin-lipped smile, and Gladio returns the gesture. It will be the last show of politeness they exchange until the fight is over.

“Bets! Call your bets!”

Men around the room start shouting, and the crowd’s buzz grows to a rumble as gil exchanges hands and wagers are made.

Gladio cracks his knuckles before lifting his arms in the direction of the crowd, egging them on. Their yells are like a drug coursing through his veins, spiking the adrenaline that is already climbing inside him. When he looks over, Snake is encouraging them too, grinning wildly as he paces back and forth, hand cupped to one ear.

_Oh yeah, this is gonna be good._

The betting continues as Tanner, their referee for the night, joins them on the other side of the ropes.

“Any questions before we start?” he asks above the noise. Tanner puts a cigarette in his mouth, holding up a lighter as he glances between Snake and Gladio.

“Nope, we know the drill,” Snake answers for them both. The fighter extends his hand, and Gladio takes it, unable to resist the urge to squeeze a little harder than usual. Snake’s eyes narrow in appreciation.

Cigarette finally lit, Tanner leans back against the ropes as he takes a drag, lifting both hands in what is the established ‘start’ position. The crowd dies back down to a low murmur as Snake and Gladio both assume fighting stances, fists up and ready, eyes narrowed in concentration. The referee blows out a long cloud of smoke, and it drifts like fog through the path of the spotlight, adding to its dramatic effect.

“Ready!” Tanner barks. Out of the corner of Gladio’s eye, he watches the ref’s hands twitch, his own muscles bunching in preparation. Two hands fall like guillotine blades, emphasizing the shouted word: “Fight!”

Gladio wastes no time in barreling forward, hoping to take Snake by surprise, but there’s a reason why Gladio is called ‘Behemoth,’ and it’s definitely not because of his stealth.

Snake sidesteps easily, moving with the fluidity of his namesake. He throws his first punch at Gladio’s ribs, and the Glaive catches the blow on his forearm as he blocks, twisting away. The crowd jeers, excited, and already crying for more. Size means nothing here. There are no weight classes, only eager participants, and Gladio is ready and willing to give the crowd the show they came for.

A shuffle and twirl to the right and Gladio is launching a counter-attack, a vicious right hook that Snake narrowly avoids. The follow up is seamless. A kick lands in Snake’s chest and sends him flying, air forced from his lungs as he slams to the ground. Gladio bolts after him, going straight for the kill-shot, but his opponent manages to roll out of the way of his next assault, leaving his fist to strike the hard ground. Gladio cringes as the force rattles through his arm, but he isn’t able to properly acknowledge the pain before Snake recovers.

Hands fly at Gladio, transforming into a blur of knuckles that he struggles to swat away. Suddenly, he’s dancing backwards, put on his heels. He weaves one way to find himself against the ropes, and the crowd roars as Snake takes the offensive. His punches aren’t as forceful as Gladio’s, but they’re precise, targeting all the soft spots that Gladio didn’t know were there, and he finds himself rapidly growing frustrated by his inability to evade them all.

All Gladio needs is one opening to shove Snake away, but if he doesn’t time it right, it could mean the end for him. He watches between his raised arms, absorbing the multitude of blows that Snake rains down, looking for his chance.

“Get ‘im Gladio!” someone shouts, and the voice is so familiar that it actually wrenches Gladio out of his laser-focus, eyes flitting up to the crowd.

It’s only a fraction of a second, but he recognizes a head of blond hair, reminiscent of chocobo feathers.

_Prompto?_

Gladio’s guard slips in his surprise, and sharp, searing pain rockets through his jaw as Snake lands an attack along it.

An ‘ooh!’ of morbid delight ripples through the audience as Gladio staggers, vision briefly blurring. He spits pink-tinged saliva onto the ground at his feet, tasting the blood in his mouth.

It’s a rookie mistake to be distracted by anything outside the ring, and it fills Gladio with unbridled rage. His next move is sloppy as a result, but packed with power. Plowing straight through Snake’s carefully constructed guard, he tackles him to the ground.

 _Some Shield you are_ , his subconscious scolds.

Limbs fly—an elbow catches Gladio on his bruised jaw and he curses, blood spattering. Somehow, he manages to hook a leg around Snake’s waist as the man tries to roll out from under him, and then he is rearing back blindly, intent on making his next attack the last.

_Mistakes get you killed. They get others killed._

The room is rolling with thunderous cheers. Gladio’s fists hit solid flesh over and over and over again. There is a scream, guttural and animalistic, but they become garbled after a few successive swings. Blood mingles with sweat and saliva, hands sliding on bare skin. Snake is writhing beneath Gladio, fighting desperately, pupils panicked pin-pricks in a sea of crimson.

_Noctis is gone because of your mistakes._

“Stop! Gladio, stop!” The voice is far away, and Gladio ignores it. He keeps pummeling the man beneath him, feeling his body lose rigidity.

Even as the tide of the crowd’s energy shifts from positive to negative, shouts of concern overwhelming previous encouragement, Gladio finds he can’t stop.

_You are a failure._

“ _Gladio_!” The voice is in his ear now, and fingers are gripping Gladio’s shoulders, trying to pull him away. “Stop! It’s over!”

He growls instinctively, shaking the person off, and suddenly it’s like he’s watching the event from above, separated from his body. Snake isn’t moving, and _shit_ , there’s so much blood. The referee Tanner is screaming at him, face red and veins bulging in his anger, and there’s Prompto, pushing past concerned onlookers to try and get to the front. To get to Gladio.

_Oh gods, did I kill him? What have I done?_

He’s still on top of the now unconscious man, and there are more hands now, pulling him up.

Gladio finally blinks down, his hands held numbly out before him. They’re stained red, not a patch of skin visible. The static in his mind clears, the world in sharp stereo.

Glancing up, an apology fumbles from his lips. “S-sorry, I—” But before he gets it out, something hard connects with his face.

The world turns from red to black.

* * *

The air is thick like honey, acrid with smoke.

Gladio inhales the bittersweet aroma, groaning from the aches and pains that needle his face as he squints his eyes open.

He recognizes the room despite having only been in it a handful of times. It’s Ignis’s bedroom, furnished with only the bare essentials and kept neat and tidy. Some might assume it’s out of necessity, but Gladio knows it’s mostly from habit.

 _Old habits die hard_.

“Oh good, you’re finally awake.”

Gladio doesn’t bother turning to look over his shoulder. He knows it will probably hurt to move. Instead, he watches the languid lines of cigarette smoke curl through his line of vision as Prompto talks.

“You’re even heavier than I remember, big guy. Took me and Iggy almost an hour to carry you back here.”

“I put on a bit of muscle.” Every word hurts, lips swollen and tight, and Gladio clamps his jaw shut when he finishes his retort. It loses some of its strength as he hisses through his teeth, and he hears Prompto chuckle. There’s a forced exhale that sends a cloud of smoke wafting over Gladio. He wrinkles his nose.

At long last, Prompto wanders over, cigarette still hanging from his mouth. He pulls the sliding door to the balcony shut behind him as he comes to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Specs is right. You _do_ need a haircut,” Gladio murmurs, trying to distract himself from the vivid memories that are now flooding into his mind. He wants to ask if Snake is alright, but he’s afraid of the answer.

Prompto ignores the jab to stare down at him, the angry red of his cigarette reflected in his steely blue eyes. “Iggy is worried about you.”

In the phrase is the undertone of everything Prompto witnessed. Gladio’s loss of control. The damage it caused. The implications for the future.

Gladio shrugs, pretending that he’s not wrestling with the same implications.

“Ignis worries about a lot of things. That’s not my problem.”

“Gladio, c’mon dude. Stop being stubborn.”

_He’s one to talk. We’re not having this conversation._

“You’re not my father, and neither is Iggy,” Gladio growls. “I don’t need you two looking out for me.” This time the pain is comforting. It takes away from the stabbing in his chest.

_Everyone close to me dies. You’re probably next. I failed to protect Noct, and I’ll fail to protect you too._

The realization is a knife twisting, and suddenly he’s struggling for air.

_I’m a failure._

_“Take it easy, big guy.”_

Prompto sighs, spreading his hands. “Listen, buddy, Noct wouldn’t—” Gladio jerks, fist clenching.

“ **NOCT ISN’T HERE**!”

The silence that follows rivals Gladio’s roar in strength. Gladio feels raw both inside and out, like all the bandages on his emotional wounds have been ripped clean off. Prompto isn’t looking at him, lips pursed around his cigarette, ash falling freely onto Ignis’s clean sheets.

The door to the room opens slowly. Neither of them turns to see who it is. They already know.

“Prompto, no smoking in the apartment, please.”

Soft-spoken words float towards them. Somehow, Ignis still manages to be gentle even now, and the invisible wounds Gladio is suffering from start to bleed. He presses his chin to his chest in an attempt to hide the tears he can feel forming, but he knows it’s a lost cause.

Gladio has never been able to hide anything from them.

“Sorry, Iggy.” Prompto jumps up to go squash his cigarette on the railing of the balcony while Ignis lingers in the doorway, arms hugged around himself.

“Gladiolus,” Ignis murmurs, and Gladio bites back a sob, holding on to whatever shred of machismo he has left. It’s not much. “I understand what you and Prompto are going through, but I cannot sit idly by while you and Prompto seek to destroy yourselves.”

Gladio tries to think of a proper response to that, but his mind is blank _–_ his body is tired, his heart is broken. This is a fight he knows he won’t win.

He’s ready to surrender.

“I cannot bear to lose either of you. You are all the family I have left—my _brothers_.” There is a slight dip in Ignis’s tone, barely perceivable, but Gladio is attuned to it. The agony in Ignis’s words chokes him more effectively than Prompto’s cigarette smoke. “Please, Gladio, do not make me beg. I will if I must.” It’s the whispered plea of a man clinging to hope.

Pushing himself upright at last, Gladio drapes his battered arms over his knees that he pulls into his chest, letting his head fall gently onto them. Prompto is still on the balcony, and Gladio wonders if it’s to give them a semblance of privacy. For what it’s worth, he appreciates the gesture.

Gladio closes his eyes and tries to remember the sunlight as the tears start to fall.

“Noct was like the glue that held us together.” It’s Prompto again, closer now. A hand presses over Gladio’s bare shoulder, his hand. “And now that he’s gone, everything is falling apart.”

More tears squeeze out from behind Gladio’s puffy eyelids. He lets them come.

Light footsteps precede the dipping of the mattress. A gloved hand rests on Gladio’s head, fingers threading through his long, unruly hair. “We are equally capable of sticking together. We need only try. I have confidence we can overcome this, just as we have past hardships.”

 _It’s Cartanica all over again_ , Gladio thinks bitterly. If Noctis is the glue, Ignis is the one who picks up the pieces and assembles them together, time and time again. _But what does that make me?_

“Your friend will make a full recovery, by the way,” Ignis says, interrupting Gladio’s thoughts. “Though it may be wise to apologize in person at your earliest convenience.” Gladio’s relieved he didn’t have to ask. Rubbing his eyes on his pants, he lifts his head. He imagines he won’t be welcomed back to Fight Night anytime soon.

_Probably for the best, all things considered._

“Yeah, I will,” Gladio comments. A beat later, he clears his throat, embarrassed by the way his voice sounds in his own ears _–_ scratchy and weak.

Neither Prompto nor Ignis move, hands still on Gladio in a show of support. For once, he doesn’t push them away.

 _I can’t do this on my own._ He’s not that surprised that it took him this long to figure it out. It seems obvious in retrospect, but they say hindsight is twenty-twenty.

“So, what now?” Prompto asks the question that they’re all thinking.

The answer is a simple one, and Ignis provides it without hesitation. “We support one another by holding each other accountable. It will be a long, rigorous journey, but we must take the days as they come, one at a time.”

“‘Roll with the punches’ is the strategy then, huh?” Gladio’s attempt at humor is rewarded by laughter as light and impervious as the smoke that still hangs in the air. Prompto flops onto his back, bent knees knocking into Ignis’s side, and Ignis leans into the contact as if to seek refuge in it.

Ignis nods once. “Exactly.”

“Just _metaphorical_ punches though. At least for a while,” Prompto adds, nudging Gladio teasingly. He hits a sore spot and Gladio winces but doesn’t scold him. He figures he deserves it, though it won’t keep him from teasing Prompto back.

“No promises.”

* * *

_Day 291 —_

_I think you’d be proud of us. We’ve come a long way._

_I finally stopped smoking, mostly because Ignis kept threatening me. He says he was ‘merely teasing’, but I wasn’t gonna risk getting knifed in my sleep. Better safe than sorry, right? I still sneak one every now and then when I’m feeling stressed, but I don’t smell like an ashtray anymore, so I consider that a win._

_Gladio is on the straight and narrow now, too. He ditched the booze for good, mostly because it turned him into a rage monster. He’s back at Fight Nights, but just as a referee. I got curious and participated once just to see what it was like, but then Gladio made fun of me for weeks, saying that I sucked at hand-to-hand combat, so I never went back. Fighting with fists isn’t really my thing anyway._

_Ignis is… well, still Ignis. He’s so damn good at everything, even blind. It’s pretty impressive seeing him train. He’s an inspiration to everyone, like usual._

_I’m feeling more optimistic about life recently, even though I gotta admit, things still suck without you. But we’re gonna keep keeping on because that’s what we do best._

_And whenever you come back, we’ll be here, ready to go._

_We miss you, Noct. Come home soon._

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on twitter @HardNoctLife or tumblr hard-noct-life


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